


Taxus brevifolia (the intertwisted fibres serpentine remix)

by rivkat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Remix, Sex Pollen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 00:21:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,793
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1569161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivkat/pseuds/rivkat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Sam search for a way to defeat Metatron.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Taxus brevifolia (the intertwisted fibres serpentine remix)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [inalasahl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inalasahl/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Taxus brevifolia](https://archiveofourown.org/works/363926) by [inalasahl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/inalasahl/pseuds/inalasahl). 



“Forest fire,” Sam said, by way of introduction. In fairness, Dean understood that he meant ‘we have a hunt,’ and it wasn’t like they’d ever been good at pleasantries. “Started raining, miraculously spared several hundred miles of Pacific Yew.”

Dean turned away from the kitchen table so he could look up at his – partner. (Kind of funny that at long last the word fit, given how many times people had assumed it.) “What makes you think it’s our kind of thing?” 

“Aerial shot of the unburned section.” Sam held up a printout. “That look familiar to you?”

Dean blinked, trying to shake off the haziness of the drunk. “Is that a sigil?” The low burn of the Mark didn’t change, but as far as he could tell it reacted to having something to kill nearby, not to simple information about a potential kill. He was already feeling Sam’s nearness, which tended to draw his (the Mark’s) attention.

“Looks like it. I think it’s a misspelling of the one that keeps angels out.”

“Maybe it’s not for ordinary angels,” Dean said. “Nobody goes to that much trouble and gets it wrong.” He paused. “Nobody but us.”

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “You think it’s for — against, whatever — Metatron?”

“Either way,” Dean noted, levering himself up while making sure he didn’t move too far in Sam’s direction, “we gotta check it out.” The angels were pulling enough shit even without Metatron; anybody sending up a flag like that couldn’t be ignored.

****

Sam packed three jackets for the trip to the forest. Dean packed a bottle. He saw Sam’s disapproving look, but ignored it. He didn’t need _clothing_. Dean had always run hotter than Sam, and not just in the metaphor way; he’d have suffocated under the layers Sam preferred. The Mark hadn’t made that worse, though covering it up gave him a constant irritated feeling almost like chafing, except in his brain instead of his skin. Dean wondered if blisters could rise on a brain. If it could happen, you’d think he’d have witnessed it already. He’d seen enough broken-through skulls in Hell. 

He wasn’t particularly worried about this investigation. The way he saw it, the Mark of Cain meant he wasn’t going to die at the end of any random angel’s sword or demon’s knife. He could get beat up some, but he was pretty sure that it would take the Blade to end him, like any other Knight of Hell. (Yeah, he’d figured that part out; he was no Sam or Kevin, but it didn’t take much in the way of smarts to notice that Cain had created a long line of killers.) Fortunately, Crowley was going to hand the thing over when the time was right. The trick would be to keep it together long enough to gank Abbadon and Crowley and not … not anybody who didn’t deserve it.

Sam was a nonpresence in the passenger seat beside him. Dean felt the pull anyway, even without Sam giving him anything back. The Mark made his older, more caked-on need for his brother’s presence seem new and demanding again, lying to him about what would happen if he touched Sam. It wouldn’t take much to reach out his hand, put it on Sam’s shoulder. Getting further inside could come later.

Driving was a good distraction from the impulse. The Mark might protect him, but no way did he want to get into a crash. Sam’s human fragility aside, there weren’t enough parts for a 1967 Impala left on the market, after his past abuses. Dean thought about putting on some music, but for some reason it was easier in the Impala without playing his tapes, most of them so old now that they threatened to break and snarl the guts of the player. Sam didn’t want to be reminded of earlier days, anyhow.

“What’s our move here?” he asked, running his mouth because, like everything else, he couldn’t stop it. “If this thing is trying to keep safe from Metatron, are we gonna try and recruit it?” He managed not to start listing all the allies they’d failed to protect.

“I don’t know, Dean,” Sam said, all _reasonable_. “Maybe we copy the sigil if it turns out to work. If you’ve got a better idea I’m all ears.”

Silence returned.

The car smelled like them. If he could, he’d steam it out, pull all the seats, scrub it down until it wasn’t lying about who they were to each other any more. He’d let Sam go, not just push him away. 

Yeah, right. Dean was stuck in place. Best he could do was keep himself from bringing Sam down like a hellhound. (Sam knew how to deal with hellhounds. Sometimes Dean thought about how it would be to die in Sam’s arms, like Sam had died in his. He hadn’t gotten it right the first time, but Sam knew better now. Sam holding him, Dean unable to hurt him any more, the lights dimming on his view of Sam finally getting free—he thought about that a lot, late at night when the music wasn’t working to drown out the deep bone-buzzing hum of the Mark.)

The air was cool when they arrived at the edge of the burn. The stink of ash was everywhere, Sam’s eyes reddening almost before he opened the car door. Burnt trees smelled different than flesh.

“Hunh,” Dean said when they got into the forest. He’d expected more destruction. There’d clearly been a fire, and a lot of the trees were burnt to where they looked more like poles, but a number of them looked alive, and there were still patches of green here and there, surrounded by grey and black. 

“You know,” Sam said, “forest fires historically weren’t completely devastating. The forest would basically clean itself out, come back stronger. It was only when people started suppressing small fires that the big blazes started to burn down everything in their path.”

Dean bit down on the “thanks, Smokey,” that wanted to bubble out and got his mind in the game. “You think something’s protecting this forest, so it’s more like us mud monkeys never started interfering?”

Sam made a considering sound—same sound he made any time he didn’t care what Dean thought—and headed deeper into the forest. Dean took a last look in the direction of the Impala and followed. One thing about Purgatory, it had made him not worry too much about navigating in the woods.

Dead leaves and char crunched under their feet. A few birds were flapping around in the distance, but there weren’t any leaves to filter the sunlight, just stripes of shadow and light. Out among the trees, the smoky smell was so strong he could taste it, coating his tongue and sliding down his throat.

They hadn’t gone more than two hundred feet when two figures melted out of the trees. Their faces blurred the way some monsters’ did, like his eyes were rejecting what they saw and being forced to try again.

Dean put his hand behind his back, not because he figured his gun would work but because it made him feel better.

The woman, tall and not stooped despite her grey hair, stepped forward. “I’m Flora,” the woman said. “This is my husband, Fav. We’re the caretakers here.”

Sam looked around, with the wide-eyed sincerity he could still pull off. “Just the two of you? For all of this?”

“Oh, we used to cover a much larger area.” Her face turned cloudy. “And we aren’t the only ones who claim this territory.”

Okay, so they weren’t going to pretend to be human. “That’s why we’re here—”

“No,” Flora said, cutting Dean off. “I’m sorry, you seem like very nice boys, but no. We aren’t strong enough to help you and you aren’t powerful enough to help us, so no.”

“But—”

“Your persistence is as unwelcome as it is unexpected,” she said, sounding like every librarian who’d ever kicked Dean out of her domain. She waved her hand, a movement that reminded Dean of wind rippling through trees.

There was a sound like a thousand branches cracking. The broken bits of leaf and wood rose up from the ground, swirling around them like a dust devil. Both Sam and Dean were too busy choking to notice when the monsters disappeared, or when they were transported into a completely different clearing.

“Shit,” Dean panted, hands braced on his knees. His insides didn’t feel as stuck as when Cas moved them, but that didn’t make him happier.

Sam was already holding his phone up, trying for a signal. “We’ve moved like a mile,” Sam said, surprised. “I think we’ve got to be within the sigil itself.”

“Awesome. We gonna go back and keep trying to get them on our side?” If Dean wasn’t careful, some crack about no meaning no would come out, and the last thing he wanted was another fight about consent and emergency situations.

Sam sighed. “If they’re not going to talk, then I guess we just hike out. Maybe we can still get some use out of the sigil.”

“‘A nice trip to the forest,’” Dean quoted.

“And you call me a geek,” Sam said. Dean grinned and carefully didn’t move towards him. Then Dean could feel Sam remember that he wasn’t interested in sharing moments with Dean any more. 

Dean coughed, clearing out one last bit of crud from his throat. “Lead on,” he said. Without the burnt trees hanging over them, the sun hurt Dean’s eyes. He wanted a drink, and to forget that they’d wasted another day finding Abbadon and not even helping Cas.

They walked. There was enough loose debris on the ground that his feet sank in at every step, like he was walking across the skin of a giant.

Damn, it was hot in the open sun. Dean thought about how the back of his neck was going to be red and crispy by the end of this hike, and about how Sam always used to poke him when that happened, literally rubbing it in (not that Sam ever brought sunscreen, just nagged Dean about it). A bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. God, he’d love a fight just about now. Flava Flav or whoever had moved them, or a shifter or a vampire. A fight, then maybe a fuck, though realistically it’d be a date with Rosie Palm for him now that his pain-and-pleasure wires were crossing back to where they’d been when he’d been under Alastair.

Sam’s pace was slowing. The sound of the leaves crunching beneath their feet reminded Dean of Purgatory. He’d moved faster there, though, whether as predator or as prey. This was just a pointless hike. He tugged at his sodden T-shirt collar. If he wasn’t careful, this irritation was going to turn on Sam, and he couldn’t afford that now. Not with Sam hating him, and not with the Mark always itching, itching, pushing him to make everyone in his path bleed.

Sam.

Abel to his Cain, the younger son whose sacrifice was pleasing in the eyes of God, who’d been able to complete the Trials where Dean had failed. Dean had a life full of sacrifices, and they’d never been enough, so maybe the brand on his arm was as fated as the one on his shoulder had been.

Every day it got a little harder to remember why he was supposed to leave Sam alone. Sam despised him now; any move he made would end in violence, with no forgiveness beyond. In bad moments Dean found that idea almost freeing: he was done failing Sam, because Sam didn’t expect anything from him one way or another.

It’d be pretty fucking ironic if he ended up with his brother’s blood on his hands (coating them, warm and wet and too quick to dry). If it came to that, though, if he felt himself slipping far enough to make a move, he’d gank himself first and leave Abbadon and Gadreel as Sam’s problem. Another failure on Dean’s part wouldn’t be too surprising, and Sam could probably handle them. The man had wrestled Lucifer to the mat, after all. 

There was an image: Grappling with Sam, in so close that his sweat would sting Dean’s eyes and salt his tongue. Squeezing hard enough to bruise down to the bone. Sam’s long muscles stretched longer as Dean twisted his arms behind his back. Nails and teeth sliding along Sam’s skin, holding him down until Dean decided just how far he was going to go.

Sam’s panting edged into Dean’s consciousness even as he tried to push it away. It was too loud, too human. Like nails down his back. 

“Sam?” He slowed to a stop. Best to keep his distance. He didn’t want to learn how wrong he was about his level of control by way of finding his knife in Sam’s gut.

“Something’s wrong,” Sam said, voice stretched thin. He oughta be nervous, Dean thought, out here with no one to rely on, and a monster in the woods. “I feel—I want—”

He turned towards Dean, and his face was pale where it wasn’t flushed red, strands of hair stuck to his temples. He looked like Dean felt, like a junkie, like a starving dog seeing fresh-killed meat.

“I want,” he said, very carefully, “to fuck you.”

Sam had always been braver. Dean hadn’t even let himself think it, or know he was avoiding thinking it. But it was there in him just the same, like gasoline in his veins.

Yes, Dean thought. If it can’t be blood, then this.

“You should run,” Dean advised him. “Get to the car.” 

Sam talked over him like Dean hadn’t said a word. “I want you on your knees.”

They were moving now, turning a slow circle as Sam shifted and Dean inched back, like there was an invisible yardstick keeping them apart. If Dean let Sam get within grabbing range, Dean couldn’t say what would happen.

“You got the whammy on you, Sam,” Dean said, hoping against hope that Sam would go off on an X-Files riff.

Sam nodded. “I know it’s this place, Flora and Fav, and I don’t give a shit.” He moved forward, fast, and Dean nearly lost his balance as he compensated.

“Pretty sure you will afterwards.” Fuck, all this dancing was getting him revved. Sweat stung his eyes, kept wide to make sure he didn’t miss a move. “Pretty sure you want to control your own body more than you want to do anything else.” (More than you want to live, Sammy, he thought.)

“Oh, I’m in control,” Sam said, almost sneering. “I feel it, but I’m still in here. I know what I’m doing. They’re not going to let us go without their pound of flesh. And we’ve got too much to do to let some two-bit tree spirits get in the way.”

“Yeah, Sam, you really sound like yourself.” Dean’s foot caught on a hidden root, and he bobbled alarmingly, but maintained his distance. His clothes felt like they weighed a thousand pounds, warm and disgusting, scratching against his skin.

Sam’s grin was the one he’d worn exorcising demons, back when that was a thing he could do by waving a hand. “After all this time, I think I know the difference between being in a bad situation and being _possessed_. Yeah, they roofied me. And yeah, I’d like to know why it’s always _me_ who gets the mindfuck and not you. But it doesn’t matter right now, and I know what I want. So _get on your knees_.”

And Dean did. The wetness on his face wasn’t sweat, not all of it, but he dropped.

“Tell me,” Sam said, circling now, behind Dean so that Dean couldn’t see him, and it was the hottest fucking thing Dean had ever experienced, Sam’s gaze like a weight on him, like he was a target. “I know you don’t have the Mark under control. Do you want to hurt me, Dean?”

Dean’s fists clenched. But he nodded, dipping his head.

Sam sounded satisfied when he spoke again. “Then strip. I want you naked before I touch you.”

If Dean had the brainpower, he’d have been impressed. Safer sex, Winchester style: Dean without his guns and blades had at best an even chance of taking Sam with his, even factoring in the strength the Mark seemed to be giving him. As it was, his head was empty and humming, light-filled, as he shed his clothes and dumped his weapons on top of the pile.

“Good,” Sam said, and if there was anything Dean hated most about this it was how his pulse jumped at the praise. “Now come here.” When Dean looked up, hesitating, Sam was standing with his arms crossed over his chest, like some statue of a god in an abandoned temple. “You can stand up,” Sam added, as if he were granting a favor.

And maybe he was. Dean was wobbly, and there wasn’t a man in the world who would’ve looked smooth with his hands and knees covered with broken leaves and his hard-on bouncing with every step, but it was still better than crawling.

He could smell Sam, sweat and cheap laundry detergent, so familiar it could’ve been his own stink. Sam’s erection pushed out the front of his jeans. 

Dean dropped again, pressing his cheek to the rough denim before Sam could get all the way unbuttoned. He breathed Sam in. Sam’s choked-off noise above him was encouragement enough, and then he was tugging Sam down by the sharp handles of his hipbones, pressing him into the loam, tearing at his clothes so that he wouldn’t tear anything else.

The red haze of the Mark flickered behind his eyes, but lust seemed as good as bloodlust for feeding it; Dean opened his mouth on Sam’s stomach and loved how the muscles jumped underneath the skin. He’d only get this once; he was going to take everything Sam would give him.

****

“It wasn’t just you,” Dean said, looking down at his belt as he buckled it.

“What?” From the rustling sounds, Sam was busy with his own clothing.

“You said you wanted to know why it was you getting sex-whammied and not me. They got me too.”

There was a pause. Sam grunted as he tugged on his boots. “Then why didn’t you do anything?”

Dean wasn’t sure whether this was him giving Sam the truth Sam was owed, or one last betrayal. Maybe it was both. “‘Cause I’m used to it.” 

Sam’s shocked silence had a very different quality than Sam’s angry silence. Even with a reason like this, Dean still had to suppress a grin.

When Sam got up and started walking, presumably towards the Impala, Dean decided that they weren’t going to talk about it. Okay. Sam probably wasn’t going to kick him out over this. After you’ve let your brother trick you into being possessed by an angel, what’s a little incestuous desire? And one way or another, Sam wasn’t going to have to put up with him much longer.

The familiar gleam of the car, sweet civilization in the midst of all this unnatural nature, made Dean speed up.

Before they reached the doors, Flora and Fav reappeared. Not directly between them and the car, which was good because Dean could guarantee that wouldn’t end well. 

“What now?” Dean asked, because he didn’t really want to know if Sam was going to try to make nice. “Was it good for you?”

Flora tsked. “You should be more respectful. My husband wanted to eat you, you know. But a fertility rite does us just as much good.” She frowned. “Though, a woman is traditional. Still, I owe you a blessing.”

Dean opened his mouth to explain just how much she owed them, and reached for his knife for emphasis, but Sam put his hand out, and the feel of it spread across his chest was too warm and strange for any other thought to survive.

“The only blessing we need is help against Metatron.”

“Or Abbadon,” Dean felt compelled to add. “It’s a stuck between Heaven and Hell kind of thing.”

“Well then,” Flora said. Her smile made her look like every other monster they hunted. “My blessing to you is knowledge. Metatron didn’t create this rune. And Metatron didn’t write the part about the Blade.”

And she was gone.

They stared at each other, Sam’s expression as uncertain as his own must be. Maybe that meant that the Blade could kill the nasty little storyteller if they trapped him in a version of this sigil. Dean’s blood pulsed to try.

“You’re not forgiven,” Sam said at last.

“I know.” Dean had some things in his ledger for Sam that weren’t ever going to balance out either, but even he knew they weren’t the same.

“But,” Sam said, and took a breath. “I’m not going to lose you to that damn Mark. There’s too much between us, even before this. You hear me?”

Dean’s mouth twisted. “I thought you—”

Sam’s punch rocked him back, and he put his hand up to his already-swelling mouth. The smoke hanging in the air made it sting more. “If you bring that up one more time I swear I’m gonna start every day by reminding you how you dumped your amulet— _my_ amulet—into the trash. I wouldn’t let you get possessed by something I didn’t even know on the off chance it’d save you when you were ready to go. This,” he grabbed Dean’s arm and pressed his thumb down right over the Mark, and Dean’s knees went weak, “is not that. This is not you deciding you’ve done enough. This is you deciding you’re worthless, and my answer is no. You are not your worst decision.”

He vaguely remembered what it’d been like to be electrocuted. A lot like this caved-in feeling, he thought. “I wish I could be sorry, Sammy.” All the way, from coming to get Sam at Stanford to his deal through Gadreel and the Mark—he even meant the next choice, whatever it was that was going to seem inevitable at the time. 

Sam snorted, acknowledging all of that because they still knew each other better (worse) than anything else, and his grip on Dean’s arm tightened. “Yeah,” he said. “Me too.” 

When he leaned in to kiss Dean, Dean closed his eyes and opened his mouth. They couldn’t go back. If this was Sam’s way forward, then Dean would walk it with him. 

It wasn’t going to take him any place he hadn’t already been going.


End file.
